VINCIT QVI SE VINCIT

"But daddy, why isn't your belly getting smaller yet?"

2010-08-10T22:01:00.001-04:00

I never actually wanted kids before meeting my wife, but once I had seen how truly incredible she was, it seemed logical that I should make more of her for the good of civilization. In fact, we are planning on more clones - hopefully we can add another one or two to the ensemble-cast before long.

My kids were a huge inspiration for going through this challenge, but kids are dangerous, viciously truthful and observant little creatures. They see things with no filters or lenses. In fact, they see straight through your soul. For the first year or two this isn't much of a big deal, but once they learn to talk, it can get ugly in a hurry.

Throughout the process of preparing for, going through and recovering from my surgery, I have made every attempt to keep an honest dialog open with my almost-four-year-old boy.

Conversations before the surgery went something like this:

"Can I make your shake with you daddy?"
"Of course you can, come here."
"Why can't you eat real food?"
"Because the doctor needs me to lose some of my belly before he uses his tools to fix my stomach."
"Why does he need to fix your stomach?"

"Because it will help me lose my belly."
"Why do you need to lose your belly?"
"To improve my health so I can be around for a long time son."

"Why do you have a big belly?"
(...sit down boy...this could take a while...)
"Well, when I was a boy I learned the wrong reasons and ways to eat."
"But why didn't your mommy and daddy teach you?"
"Well they tried, but they couldn't seem to...they kind of tried to...my grandmother was...Hey look on TV - is that Mickey Mouse?"
When he looks at the TV, I break for the garage and disappear...
Thankfully, kids also have the attention span of the average house-fly.

Conversations after the surgery went more like this:

"Why did they make those holes in your belly daddy?"
"To put the camera and tools in my belly. "
"The doctors aren't very nice, are they daddy...cutting holes like that."
"They are very nice son...I asked them to cut the holes so they could use the tools to fix my stomach."
"Will you be able to eat normal food now daddy?"
"Yes son, just less of it."
"Why?"
"Because the doctors used their tools to make my stomach smaller, so I would have to eat less."
"Is that how you will lose your belly?"
"Yes son."
"When will it go away?"
"Soon, but a little bit at a time only."
"Why?"
"Because it's not good for my health to lose too much too quickly"
"Why?"
"Because the doctors said so."
"But I thought the doctors told you to lose your belly to be healthy."
"Yes, but.."
"But you just said it's not healthy to lose it."
"Yes but..."
"So is it healthy or not daddy?"
"Well..."
"Is it? Is it?"
"Hey - is that your sister breaking one of your toy tractors?"
He runs off screaming at his 2 year old sister...
Whew.

And now, the conversation has turned to this:

"Daddy?"
"Yes, son."
"Why isn't your belly getting smaller yet?"
...
...
...
"Sandra, please come take the boy for his bath."
"Eh daddy? Why?"
...
...
..."SANDRA!"
"It's still big daddy."
...
...
..."SANDRA!"
---------------------------

Even coming out of the mouth of a sweet, beautiful child the truth is ugly. In fact, I have not lost a single pound in the 4 weeks since my recovery. And of course, having widely publicized my story, I am now beginning to face questions.

My tattoo artist: "How is it going? You feel good? Man, my other friend who had surgery melted like a snowman - he lost 100lbs in 3 months."
Colleague: "Have you lost any weight yet?"
Colleague 2: "You don't look like you have lost any weight yet"
Coffee shop girl: "You want skim or 2%" milk?
Colleague 3: "Wow - it works slowly, huh"

OK, so maybe I should have done this under the radar and not so publicly. BUT NO! I did this on purpose. You see, the easiest way to get to 350 lbs is to not hold yourself accountable for your actions. Taking the "aw f?ck it" way out lets you do anything you want.

Should I eat this 900 calorie poutine at 3am after consuming 2000 calories of beer since my 1200 calorie dinner with the boys?
The perfect answer: "Aw f&ck it...combo number 3 please."

Should I have another bowl of pasta and my wife's kick-ass reincarnation of my grandmother's meat sauce?
The perfect answer: "Aw f&ck it...if Nonna was here she would want me to"

Should I drink this 5th glass of wine while watching Rachel Maddow eviscerate Bill O'Reilly for the 3rd time this week?
The perfect answer: "Aw f&ck it...Bill is a douche bag and this Ripasso is excellent."
---------------------------

I have learned a lot in the past few weeks. First and foremost, I have learned that you can absolutely nullify the effects of a gastric-band by drinking water while eating to wash the food through the ring and by drinking good amounts of wine. But most importantly I have learned that while the surgery and the gastric-band will be a big help once I get my shit together, they won't really make much of a difference unless I get my shit together.

On the positive side of things I have managed to limit the damage and not gain any weight since recovering from surgery. I have also managed to kick my ass into exercising a few times a week.

Therefore I ask you and my kids to keep encouraging me, and to keep holding me accountable.

Location, location, location...

2010-07-31T22:58:00.001-04:00

As I work at dealing with my emotional and psychological issues as pertains to my relationship with food, I am realizing that I have some real handicaps. For one, I was born in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. This is like being a cocaine addict growing up in Bogota, Columbia.

Montreal is the the foodaholic equivalent of Rotterdam harbour to an 18th-century sailor - debauchery at every corner and down each alley. Come to think of it,
Montreal was well known as a city of debauchery long before the "foodaholism." A major port of entry to North America for European sailors, Montreal has always been well stocked with some of the best booze, dance halls and adult entertainment (IE. strippers and hookers) on the continent. Anthony Bourdain beware... (click here to see why it's already too late for him)

Americans called Montreal 'sin city' long before they had discovered Cuba in the 30's, or dug the first foundations in Vegas for that matter. Heck - most of the booze consumed in the states during prohibition was brewed in Montreal distilleries. And then, of course, there are the intoxicating women of Montreal - legendary in their own right they are for discussion on someone else's blog... I'll stick to food.

But more than pleasures of the flesh there are also eating experiences unique to Montreal that just cannot be understood by those who have not lived them. Not to take away from Chicago's pizza or Philly's cheese steaks but Montreal offers a whole other level of late-night culinary debauchery.

While most North American college drunkards are eating late-night pizza, hot-dogs and potato chips, swarms of young Montrealers are savouring 3am Lebanese food - incredible flavours like Tahini, garlic and 7-spices on roasted chicken. (God have mercy on your bowels if you have "The Creation" at Boustan on Crescent Street...a true orgy of Lebanese flavours mixed into one sandwich)

Also to be found 24/7 in Montreal are such staples as Jewish deli-style Montreal Smoked Meat, straight-from-the-oven-bagels or Asian noodle houses offering flavours from Singapore, Hong Kong, Thailand and Malaysia. Even Ben and Jerry's stays open 'till 5am in this city during summer to quash those late-night cravings for Vermont's finest dairy product. And then....

Then there is poutine. Sweet, sweet poutine. Like a great woman she can be plain and simple or she can get all dressed up like a princess. If you don't know what poutine is, please click here before reading on. Poutine can be tasted in so many ways, but a Montrealer's choice of poutine most likely depends on the neighbourhood your grew up in. West Islanders or LaSallois will tell you about Lafleur's poutine. If your are from the Point it's Paul Patates, and East-enders will sell you their Valentine's poutine. But my weapon of choice will forever be the Plateau's La Banquise.
Open 24 hours with 27 types of poutine on the menu; that is a foodaholic's kind of place. My favourite will always be the Elvis, featuring ground beef, green peppers and mushrooms on top of the usual cheese-curds and sauce. If you were to hold a worldwide contest to see what dish had the highest concentration of calories-per-gram,, poutine would surely come second only to Scotland's deep-fried Mars bar.

The Montrealer's palette is trained young, and for those that have addictive traits in their personality this can be a dangerous starting point. But worse still, the habit of going drinking with friends 'till very late, followed by 1000 calorie meals is the perfect storm for creating a weight-gaining lifestyle.

As you get older and wealthier, the Montreal situation goes from bad to worse. Soon the substitute for beer-drenched college evenings is good bottles of wine accompanied by the city's flock of talented chefs. In fact I am convinced that Fred Morin, Eric Gonzalez, David Macmillan, Charles-Emmanuel Pariseau, Chuck Hughes, Laurent Godbout, Martin Picard, Joe Mercuri and Dyan Solomon were all put on this earth to torture and kill me. (Just so you know, there are 20 more names I can add to this list...that's how ridiculous this city is for amazing restaurants)

I'm not making excuses but only examining the facts. As I head into my 4th week since surgery I wonder if I would have ever decided to take this step had I not moved 200 miles away from my hometown. They say success is completely dependent on the environment...surely Montreal would be the last place on earth for someone hoping to succeed at losing weight.

For those of you following my journey, I must again thank you for your encouragement and support. Not a week goes by that I donpre-op, and am trying to incorporate daily exercise into my regimen. Thanks again for all your support!

The broccoli drowning and other crimes of passion.

2010-07-22T22:01:00.002-04:00

They say that love cures all that ails you, but what if love is your disease?

I have had so many interesting (and some not so interesting) conversations with people over the past weeks regarding my ongoing story. There is one discussion that keeps coming back...coincidentally, usually started by skinny people. Why do you eat so much? Why can't you just stop when you are full? It's easy...just don't eat unless you are hungry...

Ahhh...so simple. Well, here's a lesson in psychology for you people that I hate but am trying to become.

Food never says no.
"Hey sweet stuff - feel like a little action?" Chris says to the eggs.
No reply.
"Good...egg yolks meet sugar, sugar meet egg yolks. I'm going to beat you over a bain-marie and you are going to like it...."

No back-talk, no headaches, no problem.
Zabaglione is a great breakfast or snack with strips of toast to dip into it, and it, like anything else you can taste, chew and digest, is always ready and able to satisfy your needs.

Food always approves of your conduct.
Remember the time your glass of Merlot scoffed at you and shook it's head in disapproval of you having another? Me neither...'nuff said.

It's 3am. You are drunker than Peter O'Toole at a Polish wedding and wandering the downtown streets of Montreal... What'll it be? Poutine? Shish-taouk? Pho noodles?? All open 'till 5am and all willing to serve you whatever you want. No matter what you end up ordering, I promise you that whatever is in your plate or bowl will not argue with you for eating it.

And most importantly, food always loves you.
Ever been rejected by a white-chocolate truffle? A tagliatelle ever treat you like a miserable jerk? Has a Filet-Mignon ever slapped you in the back of the head for dropping some water on the tablecloth? Didn't think so.
Not only does food always love you, but it loves you the exact way you want to be loved. You want it slow and sensual? Light and fluffy? You want it rough ? You set the tone and it follows your lead. Food is a dirty, dirty one and it likes it any way it can get it....mmmmm....come to papa.....STOP IT! ok...ok

Food always loves you.
Did I mention this already? Oh...my sweet,sweet, sweeeeeeet love.
Cook some broccoli, thinly sliced onions and small cubes of Romano cheese in red wine until the flowerettes become imbibed with wine and are so tender they wilt and turn slightly brown. Now that's loooooove.... It's called Broccoli affogati...affocati meaning 'drowned' in Italian.

"But officer," Chris pleads with the policeman, "I didn't mean to drown the broccoli..."

"Of course you didn't," mumbles the officer as he puts Chris' wrists in handcuffs.

"It was a crime of passion ...IT WAS ASKING FOR IT!"

But seriously...ice cream never tastes bad. And the last bite always tastes as good as the first!

Food triggers the same activity in your brain's dopamine receptors as drugs.
More and more studies are pointing to clinical proof that the development of compulsive eating follows the same neurological pattern as those who develop compulsive drug use, gambling or other addictions. In the brain of a compulsive eater (which I am) the binge is a fix, pure and simple. So while you are passing the bong, I would rather be passing the pizza box...

Now while I am not trying to use this clinical data as an excuse, it certainly points to the challenges that lie ahead for me. Beating any addiction is a lifelong process and a never-ending fight. While habits can be broken and retrained, the underlying addictive needs never truly go away... I quit smoking 10 years ago and still crave a good cigarette once in a while.

What am I thinking....I kicked smoking...shouldn't that be enough? Why shouldn't I be allowed to just eat and drink my way out of this world? Oh, that's right...my wife and kids want me around longer than that. Oh well then, back to it.

Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever. -Lance Armstrong

2010-07-21T17:20:00.003-04:00

I thought the quote was a relevant title as we watch the flame of Lance Armstrong's professional cycling career extinguish itself live on TV during the Tour de France this week. Here is a man who overcame testicular cancer that had spread to his lungs and brains, only to do the impossible and win the Tour de France 7 times. For those of you not familiar with the sport of cycling,
cycling = suffering. He who suffers harder wins, every time.   And I have always defended Lance against drug allegations based on the idea that he has suffered through chemo, radiation, multiple surgeries and a divorce, therefore having a much higher tolerance for suffering than someone who has not lived these challenges.

Pain is the topic of this lesson kids. While the physical pain of the abdominal surgery wore off quickly, the mental trauma of what I have done is hardly passing that easily. One week since the procedure and the 6 incisions are healing well, as well as the camel kick.   But the screaming in my head won't stop and almost seems to get louder every day. I wonder if people around me can hear it? People seem to be looking at me funny lately.   They say that amputees can feel "phantom pains" in their non-existent limbs for many years after their loss. I wonder if that what the screeching in my head is about? My psyche can't cope with the idea that I have amputated my source for instant gratification, consolation, affection and solace - eating gratuitously.

In the meantime, I am trying to redefine my relationship with food one step at a time. First step:

Build and foster my respect and understanding of those that raise and grow all the wonderful things I and my family eat. I will tend to my tomatoes and zucchinis. I will go raspberry picking with my wife and two young children. I am even thinking of buying a grass-fed biological steer to watch him grow and have him butchered in the fall. (more on my love-hate relationship with beef in a later post)   Maybe I can reduce my need to eat food by finding new things to love about it. What's not to love...colours, textures, smells...taste...AAARGH!

Well I was hoping to be really funny on this post but I have failed miserably. This is definitely a reflection on my state of mind, but the next one is brewing and will be a knee-slapper. I promise!

PART 2 - Bury me in the stockings please.

2010-07-15T20:27:00.011-04:00

I get up from the bed slowly and do my best impression of Bambi on the ice rink...or a new-born giraffe. Two tiny nurses run over with sheer terror in their eyes and catch me before I fall flat on my face. They put me in a lazyboy and tell me to wait for a while before trying to get up again.

This time I manage to
get up and swagger (OK...stagger) over to my nurse who is engaged in conversation with my wife. I lean on a door jam just in time to stop myself from keeling over face-first again.

"I'm ready to go," I say.

My wife points to a wheel chair and I get in slowly. While I am still bitter and resentful at my bartender Nathalie for cutting me off, I am appreciative of her pushing me to the waiting car. I manage to scuffle my way into the passenger seat, I say thanks, and we drive off in the direction of my hotel oasis.

To say that Montreal's streets are bumpy is as understated as saying that George W. Bush was slightly under-qualified for his job. I have been to third world countries with better infrastructure, but all is redeemed by the city's European flare, exciting vibrancy and it's world class restaurant scene...don't get me started on the restaurant scene!

Inevitably my wonderful wife picked the bumpiest road home. Every bump, crack and pothole felt like that blasted angry camel kicking me in the gut again. (What did I ever do to him anyway?) And just for fun, we ran into a road closure that forced us to circle back half-way before rerouting to the hotel. Never had I wanted a car ride to be over so badly. I just wanted to get into the hotel room, strip down to my skivvies and stockings and lay in bed drooling.

Finally we reach the hotel approximately 175 camel-kicks later. At last...a place to lie and drool is near. I scuffle carefully out of the car while my wife hands the keys to the valet. Next to me, two 30-something want-to-be-Mafiosi stare at me with a look of dismay from the windshield of a large black SUV. I shoot back an unmistakable "what-the-f?%k-are-you-looking-at" glare...then I realize that I am wearing beach shorts and flip-flops with my satiny-white thigh-high stockings on. Never mind.

I enter the hotel slowly and to my dismay, there are at least 150 people standing in the lobby while the fire alarm is blaring. Thankfully most of them have their backs to me - they are much more interested in the firemen wielding axes on the other side of the lobby. Trying not to attract attention to myself and my stockings I shuffle towards a couch tucked away in the back corner of the lobby. Just before I make it to my safe-haven my wife comes into the lobby yelling "Cheri! Cheri!" The entire crowd turns and looks directly at us... "Cheri - the valet stalled your car and can't start it!" she tells me.

I wince in shame as the crowd looks me up and down..."what's with the stockings" painted all over their faces. Dread, shame, humiliation work their way over me but then turn into an unequivocal sentiment of "f*ck it..."

I explain to my wife what to tell the valet and she helps me sit on the couch. For the next 15 minutes while the fire alarm rings I stare at my feet pretending not to notice the dozens of conversations going on about my attire. Surely someone in the crowd has had some form of surgery requiring these nylons and will clear up this mess. An eternity passes...

Suddenly the alarm stops and there is a rush for the elevators. The hotel manager and some security guards try to control the crowd and disperse the people into efficient, equal elevator loads. I am suddenly taken with a rush of strength and rise to my feet. I grab my wife's hand and pull her towards the elevators. "Sweet, sweet linens - I am coming! I am coming!"

When we enter the elevator I have again forgotten how I am dressed. The stares of the fellow guests quickly remind my of my courtesan attire. As the doors close I glance to the front and see nothing less than a Christmas tree of lights on the number board. This elevator is about to stop on every floor, and I am on 29! Oh dear lord...

The reflex to vomit at each stop and go of the elevator is unbearable, though I managed to hold it together through my floor. My wife stares in silence as my face turned all colours humanly possible. I could see what was going through her mind..."Please don't vomit in the elevator and embarrass me." Ha! Too late dear woman! Have you not seen what I am wearing?

As we make it to the room, I feel a wave of relief, fatigue and release come over me. The day is finally over. Tomorrow, on to a new life of restriction, moderation and health...and a few new scars.

PART I - Ready to meet my destiny in thigh-high stockings...

2010-07-14T15:07:00.025-04:00

There I stood, ready to meet my destiny. Naked save for a pair of white, thigh-high stockings and a hospital jacket. "Right this way Mr. Sapienza," says my pre-op nurse Toni.   Feeling like a cheap transvestite I make my way to the operating room...
-----------------------------
D-Day.   I wake up groggy from the 100mg of Gravol I took to help me sleep...it didn't work. I had a horrible nervous sleep, wondering who will teach my son how to make perfectly al-dente pasta if I don't wake up...Who will make sure my daughter is a black belt by the age of 10...Who will tend to my tomato garden!

We get to the clinic at 6:45am - the big anxiety on this sunny morning is that I have not been able to buy the anti-embolic stockings that are required for surgery. The surgeons last words at the pre-op appointment 3 weeks ago were "whatever you do, do not forget the stockings."   I was supposed to pick them up on Friday, but ran out of time. Found out the next day that medical supply stores are closed on weekends. Will the surgeon cancel my procedure because I forgot my pantyhose?

We check in and I am escorted to the locker room. Like a high-school kid who forgot his homework I say to the nurse "I didn't have a chance to get my stockings." She looks at me with that you-had-3-weeks-to-get-them-you-are-full-of-shit look on her face, and then opens a drawer full of packaged anti-embolic stockings. WTF!?

I am standing in the changing booth, naked as a jaybird trying to put on the stockings. For those of you who don't know, they are super-tight white nylon stockings that go right up to your ticklish parts. They are held up with a tight elastic that cuts off all blood flow to your feet.   And the best part is that you have to wear them for 24 hours following the surgery...this is important later in the story.

I step into the operating room...very bright, very cold, and filled with young, cute nurses about to see me in all my glory... "I am Samantha," says one, very tall and tanned nurse with an obvious South-American accent. "Oh god, I forgot to trim Mr. Happy's nest" is all I can think to myself... She turns me around like an expert tango dancer and opens my 'jacket' in the back... "No peeking" I mutter nervously.

The anesthesiologist tells me to relax. Easy for you to say buddy! You're not the one sprawled out in the Jesus pose on a cold table, about to have your guts ripped into...naked and untrimmed at that! Relax...ha! Just then, he says - "Choose your dream Mr. Sapienza - I will be sedating you now and you will fall asl............

2 hours later - Sound...light...pain...ouch! An angry camel kicked me in the chest? I can't breathe...my chest hurts... I can't breathe...my jaw hurts... I can't breathe...I'm having a heart attack! I made it through weight loss surgery only to die of a heart-attack on the recovery bed? You have to be kidding me! Nurse...nurse...nuuuuuurse!

--------------------------
Luckily it was just a panic attack - nothing a little Ativan couldn't take care of. I slept in the recovery room from 10am to 4pm in a drugged haze...Dilaudid, 10 times more powerful than morphine, was my best friend for the day.

At 4pm, the bartender, a sweet young lady named Nathalie, calls last call. I order another round, but she says no.

"Please?"
"No."
"Come oooooon..."
"No."
"Just one more little shot?"
"No."

4 doses and I was already a junkie....

I get up from the bed slowly and do my best impression of Bambi on the ice rink...a new-born giraffe. Two tiny nurses run over with sheer terror in their eyes and catch me before I fall flat on my face. The put me in a lazyboy and tell me to wait for a while before trying to get up again.

PART II to follow shortly!

The last night...I gave in.

2010-07-11T23:05:00.002-04:00

Food = love, food = nurturing, food = reward, food = consolation, food = company, food = entertainment, food = celebration, food = punishment... It is a long road to food = sustenance, food = fuel.

My last night before surgery...made it 2 weeks on a liquid diet and decided that tonight I would eat
like a human. Thanks to Val and Marc for that wonderful salad with bavette and even a little glass of wine. What a treat it was.

The first battle may be over, but the war is only about to begin. You see, tonight I went through all the psychological struggles that come with addiction. Just a little bit... One more bite.... I deserve it because I've been so good... why shouldn't I be allowed...

While tomorrow's surgery will most definitely put a kink in my ability to consume copious amounts of prosciutto and Parmesan, it will hardy do anything to help the internal struggle that seems will forever be the monkey on my back. After all, excess is what I have always been about. I was the guy that could out-eat, out-drink, out-smoke, out-play and out-talk anyone... (well almost anyone) Heck - when Dave Matthews came out with that song Too Much, I was convinced it was my anthem.

In less than 12 hours I will have a surgeon's tools deep in my abdomen working away... a day or so later, the real work begins.

Just a quick note to thank all of the people who sent me messages. I can't tell you how touching and motivating it is to have your support. I have been particularly taken aback with the number of people who revealed to me their own struggles with food and control issues. To all of you I say thanks, and I look forward to writing you on the other side of the procedure.

My name is Chris, and I'm a foodaholic...

2010-07-09T12:33:00.004-04:00

It's been 11 days since I last masticated a morsel of anything other than broccoli, cauliflower or lettuce. Not a drop of wine or beer, not 1 smidgen of bread nor a single penne rigate...

On June 28th I began a liquid diet in preparation for my upcoming surgery. Four Optifast900 shakes per day and 1 cup of green vegetables. That's it. That's all. No steak, no pasta, no sushi, no crème brulée...and definitely no Liberty School Cabernet. On June 28th, by some twist of fate, I weighed exactly 349.5 pounds. Today, July 8th, I weigh 334.5...15 lbs in 10 days. Hardly the healthiest way to lose weight, but I'll take what I can get.

While the first week was terribly difficult, I found a secret - STAY BUSY! Work a lot, mow the lawn, trim your tomatoes, buy and assemble lawn furniture, renovate kids jungle-gym, wash cars, clean and CLR the shower doors... It reminds me of when I quit smoking 10 years ago. I couldn't believe how much extra money I had all the time. Well, when your life doesn't revolve around food and eating, all of a sudden I have a lot of time on my hands!

It hasn't all been roses though. Constant headache since day 3, regular bouts of nausea and sporadic dizzy spells...understandable when you realize that over night I went from taking in 4000 calories per day, to just over 1000 calories. A 75% reduction in energy going into the machine was bound to have an effect. The good part is that I currently feel so crappy, I'm not even hungry. If you put a steak in front of me I don't even think I would know what to do with it. OK.... I'm lying... I would kiss it softly, sing it an Elton John love-song and then devour it with great gusto.

But I carry on - 3 days to go before the surgery, and in all likelihood a couple of weeks more before I can eat my first real piece of food. Every night I fall asleep trying to decide what the first meal will be.... I guess that means I am far from reformed.

Vincit qui se vincit

2010-07-08T17:17:00.004-04:00

He conquers, who conquers himself

I chose this title as it is the perfect description of what I am about to go through. On July 12th, 2010, a bariatric surgeon will install a device in my body to help me take control of my weight, my health, my well-being and ultimately, my future. I am resolved to make the next 25 years of my life very different than the last 25 years, but in order to do so I cannot rely on Dr. Garneau's technique alone. I have some demon chasing and closet cleaning to do,
and I thought I would take some of my nearest and dearest, as well as a few objective although sadistic strangers along for the ride with me. I will attempt to journal my experience and transformation with humor and wit, in the hopes that it will relieve some of the stress and help me cope with the pain of losing my best friend - food.

Oh sweet, sweet food... For those of you that know me well, you know that my relationship with food is highly dysfunctional, bordering on infatuation. I love everything about food. I love to read about it, watch it on TV, buy it, smell it, stare at it, cook it, eat it....I can cook it and eat it while watching it on TV and buying more online at the same time!

It's not just the food...I love all that surrounds food too...I can talk to you for hours about kitchen equipment - anyone care to debate me on Gas vs. induction? Stainless steel vs. ceramic bladed knives? Cast iron vs. porcelain? ...and while we are debating, how about cerano vs. prosciutto, or parmesan vs. manchego? I can go all night baby! In fact, some of you reading this have been in these very debates with me before. Remember the great panna cotta vs. crème-brulé debacle of 2001? But I digress...

So the time has come fore me to once and for all look foodie-ism in the face and say "you're not the boss of me." (finger wagging and head bobbing of course)

For those of you that choose to follow my journey I say thanks, and ask you to feel free to leave me your comments and encouragement as I can use all the help I can get. I only hope you find some giggles and entertainment in the process.

For those of you not reading this, never mind...